The Facefaker's Game

by Chandler J. Birch

  Ashes looked at him. He already knew why, didn’t he? The Weaver didn’t trust him. Ashes wasn’t particularly angry about it; refusing to trust anyone was the first rule of survival. Besides, Ashes wasn’t trustworthy. He hadn’t turned Jack in to the police or the Guild of Artificers, admittedly, but he’d used up a small fortune of the man’s aether for his own purposes. Still, it would be churlish to reject the man’s offer outright. He said, “Sure.”

  “I was a little worried you’d refuse to do it if I told you,” Jack admitted.

  Ashes narrowed his eyes. “Why’s that?”

  “It’s just that it’s rather important,” Jack said. “My contact told me that Edgecombe keeps it hidden in the basement of his manor, locked up good and tight and surrounded by guards who can’t be fooled by Artifice.”

  “The Iron Knights?” Ashes asked.

  “Without doubt. Edgecombe could afford a fair few, I wouldn’t wonder.”

  “What’s so important he’s got to—?” Ashes stopped. “You telling me what I think you’re telling me?”

  “It’s interesting to note,” Jack said, not looking at him, “that every Ivory family has a very specific number of them. And everyone knows exactly how many, too. It’s a matter of historical record, for instance, that Lord Tyr’s family have five. That the St. John’s Woods have eight. And House Edgecombe, according to every record I’ve found, has three.” His eyes twinkled. “Did you know no one’s ever managed to steal one? People say they’re cursed with witch-magic. Anyone who takes one without permission is driven irrevocably mad by the touch.”

  Ashes shook his head in wonder. “You’re safe, then. Witch-magic couldn’t drive you any madder if it tried.”

  “The mad ones have more fun.”

  “So, tonight . . . we’re really going to . . .”

  “Say it out loud, lad. Think about just how much fun it’ll be to steal a magical glass ring from Lord Edgecombe himself!”

  THERE was a fine line separating mansions from palaces, and Lord Edgecombe’s home skirted the line with the boldness of an Ysonne whore. It could have swallowed Jack’s house whole and still been hungry afterward. It was fully three stories high, with wings bursting out to the east and west, and gilt pillars and fabulously decorated stained-glass windows as wide and high as a carriage. The grounds over which the manor presided were themselves large enough to be a municipal park. One section was a grove of tall trees, dark and heavy as if they had been carved of stone. Another was a vast garden bursting with every color that could grow from the ground, and several that couldn’t: where botany faltered, Artifice soared. Deep in the center of the garden-maze, a clock had been built into the ground, so large you could walk atop its face. At the start of each hour, the petals surrounding the clock changed colors, shifting from violet to red or from blue to green.

  A clever Artificer would deduce that a dozen constructs had been cunningly bound to the clock’s gears. A cleverer one would realize how much time, energy, and aether was required for what was, essentially, a party trick, and then make his services available to Lord Edgecombe with all speed.

  On the night of Lord Edgecombe’s celebratory ball, there were some thirty such Artificers in attendance, and each in turn made their begrudging way through the garden of shifting flowers. They shared the same bitter thoughts. Any contract with an Ivory was a high prize. But Edgecombe was one of the Lyonscourt, commander of nearly a fifth of the Lyonshire police, burdened with a dozen dozen mercantile contacts who all ached to please him, and a fortune to rival any ten merchants’. An Artificer who could claim Edgecombe’s patronage was secure for the rest of his days. None of the Artificers who passed the gardens had been so favored. Their looks of envy could have scorched iron.

  The sights within the house were, if anything, even more impressive. Edgecombe had gone thirty years without an heir—a true-born one, at least, if the rumors were to be believed. Thirty years of pent-up excitement had been released all at once, and it had aged like fine wine.

  Each of the high Ivory families had been invited, as well as the Denizens who had climbed high enough on the ladder to lick the boots above them. Everyone was arrayed in their finest, and in Teranis, one’s finest was a high bar indeed. People had come wearing masks like noble beasts, and dresses that glittered as if they contained the midnight sky, and billowing cloaks with Woven darkness in their folds. Violet-eyed gentlemen danced with platinum-haired ladies. There was not a single face in the crowd that could not be called elegantly beautiful.

  Not wanting the party to die in its infancy, Edgecombe had made a formal request to the police that the curfew be suspended for the night. It meant very little—the greater Denizens and the Ivories obeyed the curfew by accident more often than by intent—but it sent a clear message that the Harcourt Lord intended for his revel to be one his peers remembered. And it would certainly be that.

  Relaxing the curfew, opening his house to anyone, forbidding the use of iron by any of the staff: Lord Edgecombe may just as well have hung a sign on his door that said Rob me, please.

  And Jack’s company was eager to please indeed.

  Ashes felt stupid. Worse than stupid, noticeable. There was nothing worse for a thief than being noticeable.

  He rubbed the bottom of his shirt for the fifth time, sharing an aggrieved look with Synder. Juliana had seen to their costuming for the evening. Ashes was dressed in the most appropriate of Ivory fashions: a dark-gray vest over a white shirt, with a bow tie over his throat that felt like a perpetual, gentle strangling, a tightly fitted suit jacket, and pants that were stiff enough they felt they ought to creak. Worst of all were the shoes, which sloped upward in the middle so that they dug into the meat of his foot, and produced an irritating clack when they touched the ground.

  Synder had it worse. Juliana had trussed her in more garments than Ashes could readily name, along with what Synder had taken to calling her “painted doll face,” a Stitching that William had bound to a pin she held in her hair. It made her look far more Ivorish than normal, softening her harsher features and widening her eyes. She loathed it. Out in public, she was managing to keep a stiff upper lip, exhibiting the Ivorish talent for swallowing one’s own opinions. That had not been the case back at the shop. Her response to Juliana’s wardrobe selection had been thunderous, but the doll face turned her downright volcanic.

  Jack and Juliana, true to form, looked like minor gods. Jack strode around in his stiff finery—the adult version of Ashes’s outfit, though it looked far sleeker on Jack—as smoothly as if he’d been born to it. Juliana looked radiant as ever, gliding through the party in a dress as blue as the sea in summer. William would likely have been just as uncomfortable as the children, had he been present. The Wisp had been tasked with watching over the shop.

  “How d’you figure he does it?” Ashes muttered as they left the garden, aimed for the ballroom inside. “Jack?”

  “Do what?” Synder asked in low tones.

  “Look like he belongs here.” Ashes inclined his head at the man.

  “He’s a good liar,” Synder whispered with a shrug. She went abruptly rigid, and muttered, “Watch out.”

  “Mr. Beauchamp!” Jack said gregariously. The man approaching was large, almost ridiculously so: six and a half feet tall, at least, with broad shoulders and a slight paunch. He had a soldierly look in his bearing, though it was much decayed. “Always a delight to see you.”

  Mr. Beauchamp eyed Jack with what Ashes had come to recognize as Ivorish scorn. The look was polite—Denizens were always polite to their equals—but behind his eyes Ashes could see derision, annoyance.

  “Mr. Rehl,” Beauchamp said, shifting. Ashes caught a flash on the man’s breast, a burning spark wrought in deep gold. “What a surprise to see you here. I would have thought you busy with other pursuits.”

  “When an Ivory Lord opens his doors, there are no other pursuits,” Jack said with a dangerous grin. “I don’t believe you’ve met my little cohort here. T
his is Roger Dawkins, my nephew”—he gestured at Ashes—“and Syndia Wellingham, my prize pupil. And you’ve met Juliana, of course.”

  If Synder’s warning hadn’t set Ashes on edge, the man’s response would have. He made a tiny, deliberate shift in his stance, so that Juliana was not even in his line of sight. He inclined his head toward Synder and Ashes.

  “A pleasure, I’m sure,” he said. “I had no idea you had family, Mr. Rehl.”

  “I’m a man of many secrets,” Jack said. Something in his voice had changed; there was less of the smooth confidence and bravado. He sounded blustery and hollow. “Best of evenings to you, Mr. Beauchamp.”

  Ashes stared daggers at the man as he walked away. “Who the bloody hell does he think—?”

  “Language, Roger,” Jack said sharply, setting a hand on Ashes’s shoulder. “Best not to worry about it for now.”

  Lord Edgecombe’s ballroom was vast as a church inside. Tables lined the edges of the room, leaving a great space in the center for dancing, though at the moment it was filled mainly by Denizens talking. Jack led the company to seats at the edge of the room, deftly avoiding any further conversations. Less than a minute after they sat, a snappily dressed server brought them trays of food, then flickered back into the crowd.

  “So what was that?” Ashes demanded in a low whisper. “With that Ivory?”

  “Not an Ivory,” Jack said softly. “Artificer, and quite an important one, too.”

  Ashes looked at Synder in confusion. She indicated the golden pin over her heart. It resembled Beauchamp’s pin vaguely, though the circle in its center was larger. “It’s the pins,” she muttered. “Apprentices have suns, journeymen have stars, and so on. Beauchamp has a spark—the only higher Artificers are the Guild Council.”

  “Right, but what sort of bastard is he?” Ashes asked. “Snubbing Juliana like that.”

  Jack and his wife shared a secretive glance, and Juliana smiled. “You’ve picked up more Ivorish than I thought, Mr. Dawkins.”

  “Mr. Beauchamp is Juliana’s—oh, bugger, sixth cousin? Eighth?”

  “Language, Jack,” Juliana said softly.

  “But which one?”

  “Mr. Beauchamp is my third cousin,” Juliana chided.

  “So what’s he doing snubbing you?” Ashes demanded.

  “My family and I have had . . . disagreements,” Juliana said. “It’s complicated. Mr. Beauchamp is firmly allied with my parents in our dispute.”

  “And it’s not polite to pry,” Jack said, tipping Ashes a warning glance.

  Ashes bit down on the questions bubbling to his mouth and directed his attention to the party. He had seen crowds of Denizens before, but never quite like this. It wasn’t simply that they were finely dressed. They looked different. Wilder, stranger. Their cheekbones were sharper, their eyes brighter. No one had come tonight without some form of Artifice to make them more alluring.

  Some were not simply beautiful. He saw one woman with a face like a cat’s, small and delicate with a predator’s eyes. A man sitting at a nearby table reminded him, inexplicably, of a stag; Ashes had to check twice to make sure he did not have antlers. He saw a trio of women with flashing violet eyes, and crimson streaks in their hair. He guessed they were meant to evoke a coven of witches, though they were far more glamorous than the witches in the stories he’d heard.

  “Ah, Mr. Bloom,” Jack said beside him. “So delightful to see you here.”

  “Likewise a pleasure, Mr. Rehl,” said Elleander Bloom. “Have you room? It would do a man good to rest his feet.”

  “Please,” Jack said.

  Ashes turned away from the party, keeping his face carefully under control. Elleander Bloom sat across from him, wearing an expression of cultivated boredom.

  “I wouldn’t have expected you here tonight, Mr. Bloom,” Jack said politely. “Lord Tyr has your patronage neatly sewn up, does he not?”

  “He does,” Mr. Bloom said, making a study of his fingernails. “As such, I am relieved of the need to fawn and prostrate myself before the Lord Edgecombe Almighty. Milord Tyr is a friend to him, though, and thus . . .” He gestured grandly at himself. “Here I sit.”

  “The woes of the terminally employed, Mr. Bloom,” Jack said, lifting a glass. “There are worse problems to have.”

  “Is that what brings you here?” Bloom’s gaze flicked over Ashes and Synder, lingering just a moment longer on Synder’s golden pin. “It’s a shame for Artificers to grovel, Mr. Rehl.”

  “But a greater shame for Artificers to starve,” Jack said, smiling gently. Ashes swallowed a laugh; the toothless sycophant Jack had suddenly turned into was as unlike his teacher as anything could be. It was like seeing a dragon transform into a tabby cat. “And, as I’ve recently been confronted with another mouth to feed . . .”

  Bloom’s stare landed heavily on Ashes. “Who are you, boy?”

  “Roger Dawkins, sir,” Ashes said, summoning his best humble demeanor. “Mr. Rehl’s my uncle, sir, and I’m staying with—”

  “Are you teaching him?” Bloom said abruptly, turning back to Jack. “I hadn’t heard you were taking another student.” His eyes glinted.

  “Not at all,” Jack said. “I hold out hope that he’ll carry on the family business one day, but I’m afraid he missed the registration deadline. It was a near thing.”

  “Tragic,” Bloom said with a brittle smile. He glanced over his shoulder and rose dramatically. “I find I must be going. Best of luck to you in the groveling and prostrating, Mr. Rehl. If you manage to find a job, keep your valuables trussed up tightly. I heard tell of a pickpocket chasing Artificers. I’ve not been foolish enough to be robbed, but forewarned is forearmed. Wouldn’t want your little family here to starve.” His eyes flickered toward Ashes.

  “I appreciate it, Mr. Bloom,” Jack said. “Do enjoy the party.”

  Bloom grunted something vaguely affirmative and vanished into the crowd.

  Ashes waited until the man was out of earshot before he muttered, “I think he might’ve recognized me.”

  “Not terribly likely,” Jack said. “Bloom’s not canted. You can usually tell with those types—if they did have the cant, the whole world would know about it.”

  Ashes nodded, though he didn’t feel particularly reassured. “What was that about me missing registration?”

  “Jack has to register new students with the Guild when he takes them on,” Synder said. “So they can test them for aptitude.”

  “And so they can keep tabs on everyone,” Jack said. “The Guild keeps records on all their Artificers. Iron names, true faces, whether they’re canted or not. It’s all very formal and annoying. You wouldn’t have liked it.”

  “The Guild administers a trial at the New Year,” Juliana said. “Those who pass continue their apprenticeship. Those who don’t are hobbled.”

  “You really wouldn’t have liked it,” Jack said. He perked up. “Ah. I do believe this party’s about to get started properly.”

  “Attention!” a loud voice called. A chamberlain stood on a raised platform near the bottom of the stairs, looking proud as a priest on Chiming Day. “The Lord and Lady Edgecombe.”

  An Ivory Lord and Lady stood at the top of the stairs, arm in arm, their faces outshining the lamps. The Lord was easily six feet tall, and looked like he could have walked out of a portrait. The Lady was similarly gorgeous, and quite pregnant.

  As one, the party guests faced the Lord and Lady and bent the knee. As the Ivories descended the steps, some of the crowd bowed even lower, pressing their faces against the ground or lying entirely prostrate. Ashes watched in bafflement. Even those who had stayed on one knee looked . . . rapt. They were awed. Some had tears welling in their eyes. What on earth?

  He turned to Jack, wanting to ask what was going on, but paused. Jack wore the same adoring, reverent expression as everyone else. It was the same with Synder and Juliana.

  “Jack?” Ashes asked, trying not to sound worried. The Weaver didn’t respond.
“Syn?”

  No sound from either of them. Ashes’s heart thudded harder in his chest. Everyone in the room was transfixed but him. Why? What was going on? He would have to find out later. For now, he faced the Ivories and numbed his expression, trying to look as soft and mindless as the other guests.

  Lord and Lady Edgecombe descended with ritual slowness. Halfway to the bottom, they halted, and Lord Edgecombe lifted a hand.

  “Esteemed guests,” he said. He did not speak loudly, but he didn’t need to; there were no other sounds except rapturous breathing. “I am—so honored, to see you all here this evening. It means a great deal to see so august an assembly, and for something as dear to us as the arrival of an heir. I am—so very, very deeply touched.”

  Ashes’s ears pricked. The man’s speech was not unlike that of Elleander Bloom: polite on the surface, but brittle and fake. Bloom was by far the better actor, though. Edgecombe spoke about being deeply touched with all the earnestness of a decrepit priest—but no one seemed to care. Whatever enchantment lay over the room, it wasn’t just drawing attention to Lord Edgecombe. It made his stilted speech convincing, too.

  The Lord and Lady reached the bottom of the stairs, and on cue the doors at the end of the hall opened. The chamberlain produced a long list of names and began announcing the new guests as they entered: “Lord and Lady Tyr. Lord and Lady Duvale. Lord and Lady Lefevre . . .” They were all Ivories, though they didn’t shine as brightly as the Edgecombes.

  Ashes’s attention wandered as the chamberlain recited the names, but Jack, Juliana, and Synder were still staring raptly forward, as if there were nothing else in the world but the beautiful people coming through the door. What had come over them? He nudged Jack’s foot, but the Weaver didn’t notice, or if he did he gave no sign of it.

  There was nothing for it but to keep imitating them. If it was a sign of respect and deference, he didn’t want to embarrass Jack’s company. And if it was some sort of magic—a thought that became increasingly heavy as time passed and Jack continued to make no sound—then it could be very bad indeed if Ashes was the only one in the room whom it didn’t affect. And why was that anyway?